Introduction

While concluding a European vacation with his girlfriend, Kathleen, Jake Travis is given an assignment. Kill an international assassin who targets the loved ones of Special Ops personnel. The assassin is known to dress as a cardinal and take contemplative strolls in Kensington Gardens. Jake completes his task and he and Kathleen return to Florida where she learns that he "clipped the wrong bird." Jake had murdered a popular and progressive cardinal. Jake must now track down a woman who can lead him to the real killer before he strikes again. Kathleen recoils from their relationship upon Jake's confession of his fateful act, leaving him to agonize whether or not he's lost her for good. Meanwhile, Jake is obsessed with his stuggle to answer the central question he desperately needs to resolve; why did the cardinal use Jake to end his life? "A cinematic tale…the prose is confident and clear, and the pacing smooth and compelling…another entertaining mystery from Lane--possibly his best yet." Kirkus Reviews

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Excerpt

Chapter 8

Jake tells Kathleen that he has killed a real cardinal.

“Where would you like to go?” Kathleen called out from her bedroom.

She was in the final stages of prepping herself—as was I. I was into my second straight up Irish whiskey—Jameson Black Barrel. We’d adopted the drink in London. Even took a bottle in a cab and…had a jolly good time.

She must had hustled out and bought some. Peggy was right—I’d better grab this woman. Whether or not she wanted me after tonight was a question that two layers of wax couldn’t address.

“That’s the right stuff, isn’t it?” She asked a second question before I answered the first.

“It is. Shall we grab a cab tonight?”

She poked a smile around the doorframe. “That was fun. What’s on the agenda?”

I thought, have I got a surprise for you, but said, “How about the Valencia? Steak house in the lower level.” In the event that things turned out poorly, I didn’t want to go to Mangroves, our default restaurant.

She slipped back into her bedroom. I helped myself to a tin of cashews and tossed down a handful. Lightly salted, my ass. A few moments later, she swirled out of her room and circled me in a cream colored sleeveless dress. A small scar was visible on her upper left shoulder where the bullet had passed clean through. Whether or not I ever tell that story, I don’t know. A circle of pearls dropped low on her chest and a red sash wrapped her waist. I was glad I’d exchanged my shorts for beige linen pants and a navy-blue silk shirt. I never know when she’s going to dress to the nines.

“Perfect,” she said as she lifted up a glass of chardonnay off the granite counter-top. I wondered why she hadn’t taken it in the bedroom with her. “It’s cozy and dark. Just like that place in York.” She clanked her wine glass to my nearly empty tumbler. “To cabs in London and nights in York.” she leaned in and gave me a quickie. “Hopefully it will be less stress than the last time we were there.”

Oh…shit.

I’d forgotten. Kathleen, under false pretenses, (not that I harbor any resentment) had hired me two years ago to locate her missing friend. He was really a hit man from the Outfit, sent down to….well, erase her. I confronted her and her pack of lies while we had dinner at the bar in the steakhouse. We survived a disastrous first act to our relationship. What a dick-head decision to go back there. For a smart guy, I make my share. Furthermore, I’ve begun to suspect that my stupid decision making ability is like the universe; ever expanding.

She said, “You remember, don’t you?”

“I recall that you lied about everything since we met at the D—”

“You couldn’t keep your eyes off me.” She teased. She was riding high tonight. Maybe I should table my confession that I committed murder on our vacation—killed old what’s-his-face. Why waste an eight-ounce center cut over such trivial affairs?

I downed my drink. “I can’t keep my eyes off any good looking woman.”

“Your eyes are totally free. It’s your heart that I want. Besides,” she took another taste of the wine, “love looks not with the eyes but with the mind.”

I put my arm arms around her and gathered her in, her soft body melting with mine. She smelled fresh. A hint of perfume that wasn’t there from six feet out, but up close, you’d be a damn fool to let her go. I hovered my mouth over hers and tipped on the edge passion. I searched my brain, but it wasn’t there.

“Keats, Byron, Mohammad Ali?” I said.

“I got you,’ she pulled back. “You don’t know, do you?”

“I know Twain inferred what could be construed as an opposing opinion. Tell me.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’ll make it ea—”

I kissed her as if it were my last act on earth before being led to the chair. I had held back long enough, and wasn’t at all confident about what the end of the night would bring. I released her.

“Okay. Sometimes,” she paused and let her breath out, “sometimes I think that just does it for me.”

I put her arm through mine. “Shall we?”

“Where ever you go.”

We’ll see about that.

We rode the elevator down and then strolled out of her condo and onto the hustle and heat of Beach Drive.

We headed, without discussion, straight to the bar. Kathleen and I like eating high and the steakhouse has massive high-back cushioned stools. The amber whiskey wood walls did remind me of our special place in York, except, thank God, the New World didn’t tolerate seven-foot ceilings.

I ordered a bottle of 2005 Chateau Haut-Bages Liberal, a Bordeaux that was a nice compromise between the heavy reds that I prefer and the lighter ones that Kathleen gravitates towards. I normally stick to American reds. After all, the French refused to allow us to use their airspace when we did the world a favor and bombed Gaddafi in 1986. American crosses—count ‘em—forever gazing over the frigid waters of the English Channel. I’m not implying that that grants us carte blanche, but when those pacifier-sucking socialist wouldn’t—

“I said,” Kathleen interrupted my binge in which I was thinking of anything other than what I needed to focus on, “are we reprising our signature night here? I believe you got the eight ounce and I opted for lobster tail, then we split.”

“Perfect.”

“You seem distracted.”

The bartender, donned in a black jacket and bow tie, arrived with the prize and I sampled the Bordeaux. I gave him a nod and he filled Kathleen’s glass to the appropriate level and then mine. We ordered and he expertly spread black napkins like placemats in front of us. Silverware and water with lemon followed. All set up. Nice and neat. I made a strategic decision. Tell her after dinner. No way am I going to step in front of surf and turf.

Dinner was a waste.

While Kathleen babbled about—god knows what—all I could think about was my entry point. You’ve been there. We were into the second bottle and that was stupid as hell. Sinatra’s “Hello Young Lovers” sneaked out of the speakers. I bet the Big Boy in the sky got a snicker out of that. I know what He thinks of me.

“What I like about lobster,” she said as bow tie cleared our dinner plates, “is that it necessitates that you eat butter.”

I tabled my wine glass and faced her. How should I tell her? Five years in the army left me with this: be brief, be bold, be gone.

She said, “Let’s take a walk. I—”

“I need to tell you something.”

“What?” Normal voice. No idea what was coming. The bombers are overhead and in Dresden the little children sleep.

“While on our trip,” my voice sounded distant to me, “I received a message, an assignment.” Her eyes were focused now. I felt bad for her. What a pretty picture we had and look what I was about to do. I hoped it wouldn’t go down that way, but I knew I’d been kidding myself. I do that sometime; live within my self-delusions. The problem with that is that you have no say in when reality kicks down the door, blows the roof, flattens the walls, and nukes the illusions we’ve built to keep it away from us.

I went in fast. “I was assigned kill an assassin, an evil man who has killed many.”

“You didn’t tell me?”

Be brief.

“I didn’t want it to spoil or interfere with our plans.”

“Okay.” She moved her head back. Just a bit. The first step. “That’s wrong on so many fronts I don’t even know where to start. When was this?” Bow tie asked if we wanted dessert and I waved him off. He sauntered down to the end of the bar were a blue sports coat sat with a toothpick in his mouth and a drink in his hand.

Be bold.

“London. Kensington Gardens. While you slept.”

“Jake, you’re serious?”

“I am.”

She leaned back into me. “Why didn’t you—?”

“That’s not the story.”

“Not the story?” She ricocheted back at me. “How can that not be the story?”

“The man I was suppose to kill was disguised as a Catholic cardinal. I was given his precise location. I was informed after we returned that the man I killed, who was exactly where the assassin was supposed to be, was, in fact, a real cardinal. We have no idea why he was there or what he—”

“You killed a cardinal, a Catholic cardinal?”

I nodded.

Her hand flew to her mouth. She froze for a brief seconds before she unleashed, “Oh my God. I read about him. You? It was you?” She recoiled away from me as if I carried the next bubonic plague that would wipe out a third of humanity.

I didn’t know what to say, so in the event she missed the pertinent point, I added, “I had no idea. Someone set me, set us up. I’m engaged now in finding what went wrong and completing the assignment.”

“It was you?”

“Keep your voice down. I was set up. Some—”

“Oh God, Jake.”

She brought her arms tight across her body and she slumped in her chair as if her power cord had been yanked out. Kathleen was always a lady at a table, erect with a straight back. It seemed odd, her mentioning my name while self-hugging. As if the very connotation of my name had metamorphosed into something ugly and foreign. I had decimated her evening and the look on her face, and what it did to me, was a thing I was unprepared for. I didn’t recall seeing such pain or disappointment in the cardinal’s eyes as he lay dying, and that man took a bullet.

Words cast from lips cause more damage than bullets fired from guns. Take it from me. I’m proficient in both. We discover, at the strangest and most unpredictable time, the atomic sized particles of truth that implode and rearrange our world.

“Complete the assignment?” she said. “Do you believe what you just said? Do you even hear your words?”

“It’s what I—”

“While I slept?” She shook her head side to side, her seat growing larger and gathering her in.

“It’s what I do.”

“During your run?”

“I had no say in the time.”

“No say in the time? What about the deed?”

“It was an accident.” I was tossing shit on the wall.

“Accident? What kind of comment is—”?

“Listen, kid. I’m in the real world. I don’t live in books.”

Her eyes narrowed as if I was out of focus and she was straining to see me. “Oh great. We’re back to that?” She straightened up and unwrapped her arms. “I’ve got to move. I need a moment.” She stood, shoved her stool back, and pounded off to the lady’s room.

The hell I’m doing? The last comment was a dagger. Kathleen held a Ph.D. and taught literature at a local college. I had advised her once, when she rightly questioned my profession, to go back to her books if she couldn’t stand the heat. It was a crude and crass remark. And now I’d laid it down again. But I was ticked. Didn’t she know I felt remorse for my act? It was on me. A smidgeon of sympathy would have been nice and I hadn’t gotten a crumb from anyone. Words. They will fuck you six ways from Sunday. They should give you a certificate in black belt when you compete English class. You are now licensed to kill.

I took the opportunity to hit the head myself. When I washed my hands, I didn’t look up—I wasn’t a virgin.

I was waiting for her when she approached from the lady’s room. I could tell by her gait that everything had changed. She didn’t sit. She placed her hands on the back of her stool. She’d been crying although she tired not to show it. I know that look. It’s not something you forget, especially when you’re the source.

“The cleaning crew,” she said and then I really knew my boat was going down. “They were part of it, right? I mean, they were taking everything out of our flat and—”

“I wanted—”

“Don’t.” She shook her head like a schoolmarm addressing a child who knew better. “I need some time.”

“I know—”

“No. Listen.” She placed her hand on my left shoulder. “We’ve come so far, so fast. But I need to slow it down, Jake. Your world…we, are alike is some ways, yet so hopelessly…so frighteningly different in others.”

“You know I didn’t—”

“Oh, babe. I know.” She brought her hand up over the left side of my face. “But you did. Your job…” She withdrew her hand and shook her head. “That is so stupid. It’s not a job. It’s your life. It’s who you are.”

I wanted to plead my case, but what if I didn’t have one? What if the best thing for Kathleen Rowe was that she never saw me again? I stared into her hazel-green eyes and congratulated myself on allowing a lobster to die in vain.

“Kathleen.”

“No. Do—”

“The book remark. You know—”

“That hurt, Jake. I don’t know why you do that when you know it hurts. It’s as if down deep, you think your life runs superior to mine—but look what you do. My books are looking pretty nice compared to your story. I like my books. I like them just fine. I—I’ve got to go.”

She turned and started to walk.

I said, “Shakespeare, isn’t it? Love with the mind?” She stepped back towards me. She raked her hand through my hair like it was a distant object, her eyes following her hand. “Such a beautiful mind.” She brought her other hand up against my cheek and nailed her eyes to mine. She pivoted and strode out the door, nearly breaking into a run, but not before I caught a shudder in her slender shoulders.

All those years I spent in the army and it was Kathleen who was brief, bold—and gone. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

How much blame for Elizabeth Masterson's suicide do you attribute to Elizabeth versus Cardinal Giovanni Antinori?

Jake sensed something wasn't right before pulling the trigger;what do you think of his decision?

"The Cardinal's Sin" deals with the impact of words; discuss the effect words had on Kathleen, Elizabeth, and Rondo Vizcarrondo. What effect do you think Jake's words had on Cynthia Richardson in the last chapter?

What scene serves as the comic relief for the novel and how does it advance the plot?

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